Any setting you like is fine, real-world or invented. Any time period you want to choose works too; there's always been a distant past I don't care whether the bulk of the story is in the (relative) past or present: the story of an archaeologist's discovery works just as well as an ancient story framed by a modern translator's commentary, or a transmission received amid radio static by a probe in another galaxy, or whatever dumb bullshit you want to pull.

If you want to be an insufferable goon about it, I consider about five hundred years to be the lower bounds for "vast gulf of time".

Any setting you like is fine, real-world or invented. Any time period you want to choose works too; there's always been a distant past I don't care whether the bulk of the story is in the (relative) past or present: the story of an archaeologist's discovery works just as well as an ancient story framed by a modern translator's commentary, or a transmission received amid radio static by a probe in another galaxy, or whatever dumb bullshit you want to pull.

If you want to be an insufferable goon about it, I consider about five hundred years to be the lower bounds for "vast gulf of time".

Sorry for this dumb question, maybe I'm just too drained mentally from work today which is why I'm asking, but to clarify the main prompt: it's more or less asking for a story that deals with something relating to history. Be it an obscure piece of history people don't know about or even a myth/religion people believed in at one point in time. Right? I'm just a little confused by the phrasing "looking across the vast history", is that meant for all the stories submitted or just our own individual one?

Again sorry if my brain probably is being stupid right now. I'm just a little confused.

Sorry for this dumb question, maybe I'm just too drained mentally from work today which is why I'm asking, but to clarify the main prompt: it's more or less asking for a story that deals with something relating to history. Be it an obscure piece of history people don't know about or even a myth/religion people believed in at one point in time. Right? I'm just a little confused by the phrasing "looking across the vast history", is that meant for all the stories submitted or just our own individual one?

Again sorry if my brain probably is being stupid right now. I'm just a little confused.

What I want is a story where the vastness of time is meaningful somehow. I don't care if you make your story about 'history' or not.

Driving a forklift isn't like riding a bike, it turns out; it is't coming back all that quickly, and going faster sure as Hell isn't making it easier. Jackson's warehouse-work days are longer ago than he realized, and the science-supply warehouse is way overstocked, with tight corridors and teetering pallets. An OSHA inspector would die on the spot. Jackson's not sure he's getting out alive, either, as he carefully negotiates the maze, trying to keep his cargo steady.

The linchpin of the plan is the goddamn glassware. Professor Partridge's formulation is a sure winner: a euphoric, slightly sedative hallucinogenic, Baby's First Acid for the weed crowd. Not close enough to anything scheduled to be on the radar yet. The synthesis is a little tricky, but Jackson agrees with Partridge that that's a bonus -- keeps the kitchen chuds out of the market, hopefully for long enough for them to stack bank and get out. The reagents are all common and cheap enough that they can order them by the bucket on the Chem Department's dime without anyone blinking. But the glassware? Stuff for tricky synthesis, mostly -- too expensive to casually order, too esoteric to steal and write off as breakage from 100-level labs, and too regulated to just buy without sellers demanding permits. Partridge is not interested in loving around with shell companies. They've already wasted so much goddamn time in academia. Jackson got volunteered to lift it once Partridge heard about his undergraduate warehouse work, and he's trying to tell itself it'll be worth it once the darknet sales start up.

LabStar Science Supply has a good selection and lovely security, the kind Jackson was able to buy off with a bag of prototype party powder, but they package like poo poo. Even as Jackson slows down and keeps the forklift steady, he can hear the crate of Erlenmeyer flasks at the bottom of the load clanking against one another. God knows how the Soxhlet extractors are faring. Christ, Jackson wishes he'd blazed up for this. The cold fry of anxiety is making his hands shake on the forklift controls, even as he rounds the last corner and sees the loading bay in sight, with the rental truck in position. Thank God. One last straightaway...

The glassware clanks. The shelves creak. Jackson's heart hammers. He drives the slowest, longest 100 feet of his life across the floor and up the loading ramp before he deposits the pallet of glassware in the truck. Partridge has already half-stocked the thing with Chem Department salvage, and there aren't any load straps left, but he manages to get things wedged in somewhere. Only five miles to the lab site, right? Once it's loaded and he's parked the forklift, Jackson climbs into the cab, anxiety dissolving into a runner's high. "Hey, Prof. We're good to go."

"Fantastic," says Partridge, and gets the rental truck lurching back to life. This thing is way too loving big. Why rent a tall panel truck when a U-Haul would have done the job? Maybe in a couple of trips, Jackson thinks as he stares out the window and listens to Partridge's GPS chirping out directions, but it's probably better if the university stuff shrinks slowly. They've got the goods, they've got the plans, and they've got all the time in the world. Now they just have to...

The GPS calls out a direction, a turn that sounds familiar. A Youtube video of a low overpass. "Um, Prof? Did you check the clearance on this thing?"

Partridge glances away from the road, pushes his glasses up his nose. "This is a heavy industrial traffic district, Jackson. There's no reason to assume --"

The roof of the truck hits the overpass, and the overpass wins. There's a crunch as metal shears away and the truck jerks to a stop, and then the thumps and crashes of the cargo following Newton's laws. No load straps. Jackson closes his eyes and tries to forget the sound of a dozen Soxhlet extractors breaking at once.

"Goddammit," says Partridge, with a cold calm that Jackson knows from years of failed experiments. "I'm calling the emergency line."

"If you do that, we're going completely to jail --"

"They're not going to look back there! Stay calm, Jackson." Partridge starts dialing, and Jackson bites down on his lip and tastes blood. Every instinct tells him to run, but reason wins out. What's he going to do if he runs? Find another thesis advisor?

You don’t hit the private vault of the Salvatore Family without being careful. You gently caress up, cops are the least of your worries. But after working for Vincent Salvatore for ten years, watching him let my friends get shot or arrested if it meant a better profit, I was willing to take the risk.

“There’s no guard,” I said, “just a clerk that has access. We get in, have him open the vault, tie him up, get anything small enough to carry, and get out.”

Don rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, Tim. You only been over it fifty times.” He got out of the car and crossed the street. I followed, jogging to catch up.

We walked in past the office front and hit the stairwell. Downstairs was a long hall. In a small room to the right was a desk and an oversized metal door. The clerk looked up with a raised eyebrow. I pulled my gun.

“Open it up or die. Your choice.”

“You do know who owns this vault, don’t you?”

“I’m not an idiot. Last chance.”

He smirked, but got up and put in the code. A heavy grinding came from the door and it swung open an inch or two.

Don tied the guy to his chair while I pulled it open. One side of the vault was lined with drawers. The other held larger objects, paintings, sculptures. The only thing on the far wall was an air vent.

I rushed to the first row of drawers and yanked one open. Dozens of little velvet sacks lined it. I opened one. Diamonds. I scooped the bags into my duffle. Don hustled to the far end and started emptying a drawer down there. So far, so good.

Then the door swung shut, gave a mechanical clank, and the electric buzz of maglocks kicked in. Dim emergency lights flicked on.

“Don? How well did you tie that guy up?”

“Zip-tied his hands together and taped him to the chair.” His breath was coming in ragged gasps. “Tim, what the gently caress?”

“What about his feet?”

“Oh gently caress, Tim. Oh gently caress me. We’re dead.”

I scanned the vault. My eyes locked on the air vent. It was about seven feet off the ground.

“Look for a box, or maybe a sturdy statue.” I pointed to the larger items across the room.

“What?” Don paced the row of drawers, running his hands through his hair as he went.

“You want to wait for them to open the door? We need to see if we can get that vent cover open, see where it goes.”

Two minutes later, we’d dragged the bust of a woman over below the vent. It had a wide base, and her shoulders were about level. I hopped up while Don held it steady. The vent was flush with the wall with eight screws holding it in place.

“Got a dime?” I said. Don handed me one, and I began fighting the screws loose. With the last one gone, the cover popped out a bit. I flung it at the vault door.

The vent itself looked like a tight fit, but doable. We’d have to leave the bags, though.

“Don, get the tickets, but leave the receipt for the plane tickets. We want them watching the airport as long as possible.” I dropped down and stuffed as many little velvet bags into pockets as I felt I could, considering the squeeze. Don tucked the bus tickets - bought with fake ids - and the plane tickets - bought with the real thing - in his jacket. Then I climbed back up the statue, put my arms as far into the vent as I could, and wriggled my way in. I heard Don do the same as soon as he had room.

After twenty feet of pitch dark, I saw a vent in the floor up ahead. I climbed on top of it, braced my back against the roof, and pushed. It tore away from the ductwork with a screech and clattered to ground. I followed head first, half-falling from the sudden loss of support. Don dropped down after me. We were both streaked black.

The hall was empty. Ahead, I heard someone shout, “Get it the gently caress open!” I pulled my gun, motioned for Don to do the same.

“Remember, we get through this, get to the bus station. Don’t get followed.” I took a deep breath. “Let’s get out of here.”

Whatever else you can say about this brawl, it definitely involved angels with weapons. Jay W. Friks wins for pulling off a story with some degree of meaning from this completely asinine prompt. Nice work, Jay.

Crits!

Jay W. Friks, "Perdition"

This story is a slow starter, with some early proofreading issues that took me out of the story initially (missing apostrophe in "Bernards," some clunky comma splices), but it really warmed up as it went. The material with the lash angel is gory but strong, and it gives more weight to what could be a pretty clumsy expository passage; a lot of this story is based around a single idea, but there's enough action that it doesn't feel like a talking-head-expository story at all. The end is particularly strong, and the last paragraph gives a really strong and evocative mental image. Really nice work.

Exmond, "Tempered Sacrifice"

In terms of overall structure and effect, I feel like this story is the opposite of Jay's: starting with its strongest point and gradually becoming weaker and more confused, until the ending feels a bit of an anticlimax even though objectively the events are cataclysmic. The concept of gaining a boon from Heaven via surviving a ritual sin-smiting is legitimately sort of interesting (like, why would God do this or let this happen?), and the visual of the Jupiter-Wrath sword is nice; unfortunately, the recitation shortly thereafter kind of undercuts the tone with a sort of self-conscious cleverness ("thrust with Lust," really?), and I feel like the desire to build something clever and complicated kind of overwhelms the story from there. There's a lot going on here, and at 1000 words, I think it'd be more sensible to trim and focus. We probably don't need the necromantic bolts -- honestly, do the protagonists need to be necromancers at all? The trick they're playing on God here seems largely magic-agnostic, and the "take up necromancy to revive a dead loved one" trope is extremely predictable. Just too much stuff. Also, too much paragraph spacing.

Small side note: this is your third consecutive story with a theme of mothers suffering child loss, although this is the first one where it's actual child death and not just signing over custody. I respect that you're trying to get more human/emotional themes into your writing, and I think it's a good direction, but I would be cautious about reusing this plot device, especially as a motivation for female characters. Women in fiction often get pigeonholed as either love/sex interests or mothers/caretaker figures, and it'd be nice to see female characters have problems that don't relate to either of those roles.

Another small side note: I didn't want to DQ you for the Garth Nix references, because I wanted to make it clear that these brawl results were based on story quality and not "oops, someone DQ'd," but I do want to talk about it a bit. I know this was intended as a throwaway reference, and I suspect it was a bit of fun for you writing a story you've been open about being nervous about, but you should really try to avoid this sort of thing in TD entries. Copying very distinct flavor elements from other stories, however minor their use, can rip readers out of the story and make it all feel less creative and original. You don't need to prop yourself up with fanfic elements. Please don't use them in the future.

Whatever else you can say about this brawl, it definitely involved angels with weapons. Jay W. Friks wins for pulling off a story with some degree of meaning from this completely asinine prompt. Nice work, Jay.

Crits!

Jay W. Friks, "Perdition"

This story is a slow starter, with some early proofreading issues that took me out of the story initially (missing apostrophe in "Bernards," some clunky comma splices), but it really warmed up as it went. The material with the lash angel is gory but strong, and it gives more weight to what could be a pretty clumsy expository passage; a lot of this story is based around a single idea, but there's enough action that it doesn't feel like a talking-head-expository story at all. The end is particularly strong, and the last paragraph gives a really strong and evocative mental image. Really nice work.

Exmond, "Tempered Sacrifice"

In terms of overall structure and effect, I feel like this story is the opposite of Jay's: starting with its strongest point and gradually becoming weaker and more confused, until the ending feels a bit of an anticlimax even though objectively the events are cataclysmic. The concept of gaining a boon from Heaven via surviving a ritual sin-smiting is legitimately sort of interesting (like, why would God do this or let this happen?), and the visual of the Jupiter-Wrath sword is nice; unfortunately, the recitation shortly thereafter kind of undercuts the tone with a sort of self-conscious cleverness ("thrust with Lust," really?), and I feel like the desire to build something clever and complicated kind of overwhelms the story from there. There's a lot going on here, and at 1000 words, I think it'd be more sensible to trim and focus. We probably don't need the necromantic bolts -- honestly, do the protagonists need to be necromancers at all? The trick they're playing on God here seems largely magic-agnostic, and the "take up necromancy to revive a dead loved one" trope is extremely predictable. Just too much stuff. Also, too much paragraph spacing.

Small side note: this is your third consecutive story with a theme of mothers suffering child loss, although this is the first one where it's actual child death and not just signing over custody. I respect that you're trying to get more human/emotional themes into your writing, and I think it's a good direction, but I would be cautious about reusing this plot device, especially as a motivation for female characters. Women in fiction often get pigeonholed as either love/sex interests or mothers/caretaker figures, and it'd be nice to see female characters have problems that don't relate to either of those roles.

Another small side note: I didn't want to DQ you for the Garth Nix references, because I wanted to make it clear that these brawl results were based on story quality and not "oops, someone DQ'd," but I do want to talk about it a bit. I know this was intended as a throwaway reference, and I suspect it was a bit of fun for you writing a story you've been open about being nervous about, but you should really try to avoid this sort of thing in TD entries. Copying very distinct flavor elements from other stories, however minor their use, can rip readers out of the story and make it all feel less creative and original. You don't need to prop yourself up with fanfic elements. Please don't use them in the future.

Driving a forklift isn't like riding a bike, it turns out; it is't tsk, always proofread well for brawls coming back all that quickly, and going faster sure as Hell isn't making it easier. Jackson's warehouse-work days are longer ago than he realized, and the science-supply warehouse is way overstocked, with tight corridors and teetering pallets. An OSHA inspector would die on the spot. Jackson's not sure he's getting out alive, either, as he carefully negotiates the maze, trying to keep his cargo steady. this is a woefully tangled first para, for all it's an amusing image

The linchpin of the plan is the goddamn glassware. Professor Partridge's formulation is a sure winner: a euphoric, slightly sedative hallucinogenic, Baby's First Acid for the weed crowd. Not close enough to anything scheduled to be on the radar yet. The synthesis is a little tricky, but Jackson agrees with Partridge that that's a bonus -- keeps the kitchen chuds out of the market, hopefully for long enough for them to stack bank and get out. The reagents are all common and cheap enough that they can order them by the bucket on the Chem Department's dime without anyone blinking. But the glassware? Stuff for tricky synthesis, mostly -- too expensive to casually order, too esoteric to steal and write off as breakage from 100-level labs, and too regulated to just buy without sellers demanding permits. Partridge is not interested in loving around with shell companies. They've already wasted so much goddamn time in academia. Jackson got volunteered to lift it once Partridge heard about his undergraduate warehouse work, and he's trying to tell itself it'll be worth it once the darknet sales start up. a straight up infodump, goddam. for all that it's smoothly enough delivered and conveys some ok character, i'm not sure you couldn't have worked this into action better? also you're doing breaking bad with the lightest coat of paint, noone better say SCIENCE BITCHES K

LabStar Science Supply has a good selection and lovely security, the kind Jackson was able to buy off with a bag of prototype party powder, but they package like poo poo. Even as Jackson slows down and keeps the forklift steady, he can hear the crate of Erlenmeyer flasks at the bottom of the load clanking against one another. God knows how the Soxhlet extractors are faring. Christ, Jackson wishes he'd blazed up for this. The cold fry of anxiety is making his hands shake on the forklift controls, even as he rounds the last corner and sees the loading bay in sight, with the rental truck in position. Thank God. One last straightaway...

The glassware clanks. The shelves creak. Jackson's heart hammers. He drives the slowest, longest 100 feet of his life across the floor and up the loading ramp before he deposits the pallet of glassware in the truck. Partridge has already half-stocked the thing with Chem Department salvage, and there aren't any load straps left, but he manages to get things wedged in somewhere. Only five miles to the lab site, right? Once it's loaded and he's parked the forklift, Jackson climbs into the cab, anxiety dissolving into a runner's high. "Hey, Prof. We're good to go." you do a pretty good job of making driving a forklift slowly into a tense heist sorta thing, but it would have been much better if there was an actual time limit or a guard or something?

"Fantastic," says Partridge, and gets the rental truck lurching back to life. This thing is way too loving big. Why rent a tall panel truck when a U-Haul would have done the job? Maybe in a couple of trips, Jackson thinks as he stares out the window and listens to Partridge's GPS chirping out directions, but it's probably better if the university stuff shrinks slowly. They've got the goods, they've got the plans, and they've got all the time in the world. Now they just have to...

The GPS calls out a direction, a turn that sounds familiar. A Youtube video of a low overpass. "Um, Prof? Did you check the clearance on this thing?"

Partridge glances away from the road, pushes his glasses up his nose. "This is a heavy industrial traffic district, Jackson. There's no reason to assume --"

The roof of the truck hits the overpass, and the overpass wins. There's a crunch as metal shears away and the truck jerks to a stop, and then the thumps and crashes of the cargo following Newton's laws. No load straps. Jackson closes his eyes and tries to forget the sound of a dozen Soxhlet extractors breaking at once. this complication is straightforward but well delivered

"Goddammit," says Partridge, with a cold calm that Jackson knows from years of failed experiments. "I'm calling the emergency line." this is extremely walter white, too much i think

"If you do that, we're going completely to jail --"

"They're not going to look back there! Stay calm, Jackson." Partridge starts dialing, and Jackson bites down on his lip and tastes blood. Every instinct tells him to run, but reason wins out. What's he going to do if he runs? Find another thesis advisor? aaaand a final gag which is adequate if not inspired.

So this is a straight up segment from a breaking bad episode with the lightest coat of paint, but it's well delivered, hits the prompt well, and does a solid job of characterisation. It could have done with a little more challenge, and it's a snippet out of the middle of a story, but i guess 750 words doesn't leave you much to play with.

You don’t hit the private vault of the Salvatore Family without being careful. You gently caress up, cops are the least of your worries. But after working for Vincent Salvatore for ten years, watching him let my friends get shot or arrested if it meant a better profit, I was willing to take the risk. tidy cliche opener, i'm prepped for criminals doing heist stuff w/out too much fuss or bother

“There’s no guard,” I said, “just a clerk that has access. We get in, have him open the vault, tie him up, get anything small enough to carry, and get out.”

Don rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, Tim. You only been over it fifty times.” i'd have this line with the prior one rather than in a separate para He got out of the car and crossed the street. I followed, jogging to catch up.

We walked in past the office front and hit the stairwell. Downstairs was a long hall. In a small room to the right was a desk and an oversized metal door. The clerk looked up with a raised eyebrow. I pulled my gun. i think the issue with cliche gangster writing is you want to make sure you're putting effort into teh details, so it's good zingy cliche - there's not a single interesting image or detail in this, which is a waste - an evocative image at the front of the story colours the rest, and it's not like you have dozens of years of heist films to crib off (that's a lie: you actually do)

“Open it up or die. Your choice.”

“You do know who owns this vault, don’t you?”

“I’m not an idiot. Last chance.” Oh. Not so progressive then.why not give this guy some flavour? make him an rear end in a top hat, a sweetheart, a snivelling dick.

He smirked, but got up and put in the code. A heavy grinding came from the door and it swung open an inch or two.

Don tied the guy to his chair while I pulled it open. One side of the vault was lined with drawers. The other held larger objects, paintings, sculptures. The only thing on the far wall was an air vent. i think you're going for clipped and laconic, which is fine (and your sentence level writing is competent) but you're again missing opportunities to make me care about the characters.

I rushed to the first row of drawers and yanked one open. Dozens of little velvet sacks lined it. I opened one. Diamonds. I scooped the bags into my duffle. Don hustled to the far end and started emptying a drawer down there. So far, so good.

Then the door swung shut, gave a mechanical clank, and the electric buzz of maglocks kicked in. Dim emergency lights flicked on.

“Don? How well did you tie that guy up?”

“Zip-tied his hands together and taped him to the chair.” His breath was coming in ragged gasps. “Tim, what the gently caress?”

“What about his feet?”

“Oh gently caress, Tim. Oh gently caress me. We’re dead.”

I scanned the vault. My eyes locked on the air vent. It was about seven feet off the ground.

“Look for a box, or maybe a sturdy statue.” I pointed to the larger items across the room.

“What?” Don paced the row of drawers, running his hands through his hair as he went.

“You want to wait for them to open the door? We need to see if we can get that vent cover open, see where it goes.”

Two minutes later, we’d dragged the bust of a woman over below the vent. It had a wide base, and her shoulders were about level. I hopped up while Don held it steady. The vent was flush with the wall with eight screws holding it in place. this is an exciting drama, i hope they get up to teh vent

“Got a dime?” I said. Don handed me one, and I began fighting the screws loose. With the last one gone, the cover popped out a bit. I flung it at the vault door.

The vent itself looked like a tight fit, but doable. We’d have to leave the bags, though.

“Don, get the tickets, but leave the receipt for the plane tickets. We want them watching the airport as long as possible.” I dropped down and stuffed as many little velvet bags into pockets as I felt I could, considering the squeeze. Don tucked the bus tickets - bought with fake ids - and the plane tickets - bought with the real thing - in his jacket. Then I climbed back up the statue, put my arms as far into the vent as I could, and wriggled my way in. I heard Don do the same as soon as he had room. ok i'm glad all the details of their vent entry have been established. You've spent a lot longer on this than the character of the door guy, fyi.

After twenty feet of pitch dark, scary! I saw a vent in the floor up ahead. phew! I climbed on top of it, braced my back against the roof, and pushed. It tore away from the ductwork with a screech and clattered to ground. I followed head first, half-falling from the sudden loss of support. Don dropped down after me. We were both streaked black.

The hall was empty. Ahead, I heard someone shout, “Get it the gently caress open!” I pulled my gun, motioned for Don to do the same.

“Remember, we get through this, get to the bus station. Don’t get followed.” I took a deep breath. “Let’s get out of here.” that sounds like a potentially interesting scene, but I have my doubts

Simple enough, right? I DON'T KNOW YOU'RE THE WRITER

This is competent enough in its words, but is fatally dull in the story it tells, which is: people walk into a room, and then leave it. i think you could have vastly improved it with some better descriptive details and some actual character/emotion. It's also a snippet out of a bigger story that doesn't really resolve anything.

Overall these weren't terrible, but one was decidedly less terrible even though it was a borderline actionable rip off of a famous tv show ANTIVEHICULAR TAKES THE PRIZE

thank you for participating in this completely not contrived face off god bless you both and I hope neither of you die in the next little while.